


need against need against need

by innie



Category: The Binding - Bridget Collins
Genre: First Time, M/M, Outdoor Sex, POV First Person Porn, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:35:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23047888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innie/pseuds/innie
Summary: One of their days together in the spring.
Relationships: Lucian Darnay/Emmett Farmer
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	need against need against need

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yujacheong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yujacheong/gifts).



> I found the title in a Richard Siken piece and thought it beautiful and fitting.

His nipples are flat discs, brown as his eyes, and between them hangs my ring. The string it's hanging from swings out and back, inexorable as a pendulum, the metal hoop beating tellingly against his breastbone: he ran to get to me. 

He ran to make the time short, to throw himself into my arms, as if the throwing will make me blind to the wonder of him. He has come to me in my favourite hour, when the late afternoon sun pours down like syrup, when the scents and goldenness of the air give all the world a flattering haze. He has no need of such camouflage.

His eyes are large, tilted at the corners, set beneath the dramatic slashes of his eyebrows. The hair on his head is a softer brown, luxurious as Splotch's fur, messy as a haystack. If I had any skill at all, I would burn the paintings of dead-eyed nymphs and buxom shepherdesses that pollute my father's house, and put up images of Emmett instead.

He refuses to stay in my frame. There is a crash when he barrels into me, the shirt he unbuttoned as he ran flapping at his sides like ivory wings, and bears me down to the thick grass. We are pressed so closely together my buttons must be cutting into his flesh as his ring is indenting mine, but he seems not to feel it. His hand is rough from work, dry from years of industry, and yet all I feel when it cups my face is security. His broad thumb lands on my lower lip, pulls at it, tugs down my jaw, and he drops his head to claim my mouth as if he has never heard of playfulness, of gentleness.

I bite back and he grins at me, his teeth locked around my lower lip as mine have claimed the flexible line of his upper one.

He smells like pepper, too costly for his father's spartan table, but he tastes like the sour necessity of wine. There is another crash when I surge up, and then he is on my tongue, softness conquering where bone faltered. My fingers steal into his hair, pulling at the crown of his head, as my legs slot around his. Like this, in his lap, I am taller than he is and I close my eyes, not to make his touch more exquisite, but to dazzle myself by looking anew. My eyes are so focused on him that I can only dimly sense a sort of blue halo all around him; sky, I think, but it cannot be so as the sun has tinted everything to gold, and it is, I understand at last, the haze of the field of bluebells behind him, a vast carpet of them as deep a violet as the glints on the ring we are crushing between our chests. 

His is broader, of course, and littered with soft, sparse hairs and scattered with freckles. His arms flex pleasingly around me, as if he could crush me as easily as he could unseat me. Instead, he gives, surrendering and lying prone on the grass, arms flying apart and landing splayed, and I can see my own shadow, sharp and clear, fallen across his chest, darkening his nipples, making the flush of his skin a softer tide. It is then that I know the kisses, the bluebells, the ring — offered and accepted as if it is a guarantee of safety — have all been shadows in which the beasts we truly are can disguise themselves.

I fall on him, ravenous, ravaging, and he splinters beneath me, the reverberations enough to shake me apart.

* * *

His mouth is hot as a branding iron, and he's careless with it, not seeming to care if he marks me. I'd wear his marks, touch the tender places with shaking fingers in the long hours until I can see him next. I've already been pressing his ring to my breastbone and palms in turn, wanting those unbroken circles imprinted in my flesh. It's been a warm spring but I've taken to sleeping with a shirt on so as not to give up my perfect secret.

Every kiss, every bite shatters off a piece of my flesh. I am in pieces. I need Lucian to gather me up. Lucian — the name is lovely in my mind, far better suited to this quicksilver creature biting at me than the lordly _Darnay_ I'd spit out when I wasn't sure of the game he and Alta were playing — knows what he's doing, knows how to make me light up. How many other boys has he kissed like this? 

I need to be the one he remembers.

I wasn't entirely wrong before; he carries himself like a lord, though his nose is not as far up in the air as I'd thought. But surely no one has made him beg, not even when he was a virgin, not even when he might have been shy. He has too much assurance — his money and his beauty would each be enough to confer that air of distinction and together they are undeniable — to play any role other than bestower of kisses and caresses.

There are other pleasures. I know because he taught me.

I flex up when his mouth lands hotly on my belly, his chin nudging at the waistband of my rough trousers, and pull him up my body with insistent arms. His face flashes from intent to surprised, and his mouth is mine for the taking. My fingers know how to mend, yes, but better yet how to wreck. His fine lawn shirt is unbuttoned in haste and discarded in the lush grass, his trousers and drawers opened enough for my hand to delve inside and find his cock. I tear my mouth from his to look at the treasure in my grasp. Every part of him aside from this one is taut and pale, skin so flawless as it stretches over blue veins and prominent bones that he looks like porcelain fresh from the factory. But his cock is an angry red and it has already made a bit of a mess of his drawers, a problem for a laundress.

The drops of spend are sticky when I scoop them up and paint one of his nipples — the pinkish brown of an apple fit only for the cider press — before sucking the spend off. He gasps my name and hugs my head close and I am smiling into his skin, my teeth longing to catch some piece of him between them.

When I drop my hand back to his cock, there's more liquid. When he had taken me before, the times he has, he had had something that made my insides feel like his skin: too fine to have anything so coarse as a grain, too silky to be substantial. His spend will have to do to prepare him, for I see no evidence of a stoppered jar in the clothing he eagerly casts aside. "Yes, Emmett, yes," he says, voice cracking like he's not full grown, like it's not a man's cock I'm caressing.

It is that crack that makes me reconsider. He had been careful with me, and still there had been pain, fleeting but sharp, as he breached me. If he has never been taken, I could in my ignorance hurt him more lastingly.

My mouth will not hurt him if I mind my teeth.

His hand rests on top of mine, smaller enough that he cannot touch himself because my hand is in the way. Still, he seems to like the sight of our hands thus paired, and he weaves his soft fingers, innocent of hair and freckles, through mine, palm spread over my knuckles. One last tug and I let go and his eyes go wide and it is as if the movement of widening them has deprived him of the will to breathe. He is quick enough to open my trousers, though, and shove them down along with my drawers.

I scramble to my knees, confusing him; he is still resting on his sweet bottom, legs splayed around the space I had been taking up. I want his cock in my mouth too urgently to tease, so I duck down in a single swift swoop and take him in.

He crumples like a discarded handkerchief, and I can imagine the grass weaving into his silky hair, sticking to his back, prickled with sweat. I know nothing of how to do the work I am doing, only my desire for it, and keep my mouth soft around him. He is gasping — his nose really is in the air now — and the sound of his whimpers is so sweet that I take it as encouragement. With a rasp, I drag my tongue down his length and he cries out.

His hand is tearing at my hair when he erupts. I keep him on my tongue as he spasms, wanting every last trace of him, and at long last he pushes me away; I fall on my backside, feeling like an upended turtle. He sits up, jerking like a marionette, and his eyes widen. I follow his gaze. I have spent too, it seems, though I was too caught up in the glory of fucking Lucian to register my own sensations. When he pushed me back, I was still kneeling, still bent low, and his ring dragged through the puddle of my seed. I am glad it all landed clear of my clothes, for the stain would be a confession.

He shuffles forward on his hands and knees and drapes himself over me. He dips his head to catch the sticky ring between his lips and drops it in my mouth when he kisses me.


End file.
